W A Y N E    J O S E P H S O N

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Stephen Crane’s 1891 masterpiece is the powerful, emotionally compelling story of a young Civil War soldier, Henry Fleming, and his quest for manhood as he endures the nightmare of battle and comes to grips with his fears and feelings of cowardice.
  It is one of the most important works in American literature, and the first novel that depicted war, not as romantic and idealistic, but in brutal, realistic terms.
Chapter 1

The cold and fog of the night gave way to morning, and the sleeping regiment of the Union army that was stretched out on the hills began to awaken. They were camped on the banks of an amber-colored river. At night, when the river became black, they could look across and see the reddish glow of Confederate campfires in the distant hills.
Awake now, the soldiers sat, and waited, and watched as the morning sun turned the long, muddy ditches into passable roads.
Suddenly, the army came alive and began to tremble with eagerness as a rumor spread throughout the camp.
A certain tall soldier named Jim Conklin had gone down to the river to wash his shirt. He came flying back, waving his shirt importantly like a banner, bursting with news that he had heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from an honest cavalryman, who had heard it from his trusted brother, who was an orderly at division headquarters.
"We're going to move tomorrow, for sure," he said pompously to a large group of soldiers. "We're going way up the river, cut across, and come around behind the enemy.”
He loudly announced a brilliant, elaborate plan to his attentive audience. When he had finished, the blue-clothed men scattered into small groups, between the rows of squat brown huts, and argued about it.
About forty soldiers who, with hilarious encouragement, had been watching a negro teamster dance on a cracker box, walked away and left the man sitting down glumly.
Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys.
"It's a lie! That's all it is--a thundering lie!" said another private, sulking loudly. His smooth face was flushed with redness, and his hands were thrust into his trouser pockets.
He took the matter as a personal insult. "I don't believe the darn old army's ever going to move. I've gotten ready to move eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain't moved yet."
The tall soldier felt it necessary to defend the rumor he had started. He and the loud private, named Wilson, came close to fighting over it.
A corporal began swearing in front of the group. He had just put an expensive floor in his house. Last spring, he had held off from adding to the comfort of his home, because he thought the army might begin marching at any moment. But lately, he felt they had settled into a sort of eternal camp.
Many of the soldiers debated heatedly. One man revealed, in strangely clear detail, all the plans of the commanding general. Other men argued that there were different plans for the army’s campaign. They all went at each other, each trying to get the attention of the group.
Meanwhile Jim, the tall soldier who had started the rumor, strutted around with great importance. He was continually peppered with questions.
"What's up, Jim?"
"The army's going to move."
"Ah, what are you talking about? How do you know it is?"
"Well, you can believe me or not, just as you like. I don’t care a hang.”
He came close to convincing them by declining to produce any proof. They grew very excited over it.
There was a youthful private named Henry Fleming who listened with eager ears to the words of Jim, and all the comments of his comrades. After hearing his fill of talk about marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled through a small hole that served as a door.
He wished to be alone with some new thoughts. He lay down on a wide bunk that stretched across the end of the room.
At the other end of the hut, cracker boxes served as furniture, grouped around the fireplace. On one of the log walls, a picture from a magazine was hung, and three rifles were lined up parallel on pegs. Equipment hung on the other walls. Some tin dishes lay on a small pile of firewood.
The roof was a folded tent. The sunlight made the hut glow light yellow. A small window cast a square of whiter light on the cluttered floor.
At times, the smoke from the fire avoided the chimney and wreathed into the room. This flimsy chimney, made of clay and sticks, constantly threatened to set the whole hut on fire.
Henry Fleming was in a trance--one of astonishment. So they were finally going to fight. Tomorrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, and he would be in it. For a while, he tried hard to make himself believe it. It was hard to accept for sure that he was about to engage in one of the great affairs of the earth--war.
He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life--of vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep and fire. In his dreams, he had seen himself in many battles, imagining himself keeping people safe in the shadow of his eagle-eyed skill and bravery.
But awake, he thought of battles as bloody blotches on the pages of the past. He regarded them as things of the past, with images of heavy crowns and high castles. He thought of wars as belonging to a period in world history that had gone over the horizon and disappeared forever.
Back home on his farm in rural New York, his youthful eyes had looked upon the Civil War with distrust. It must be some sort of playtime affair. He had long given up witnessing a noble Greek-like struggle. No more of those, he thought. Men were too smart about the world and religion to engage in wars of throat-grappling passion. Besides, wars of passion like the ancients fought were too expensive.
Several times, he had burned with desire to enlist. Reports of great battles shook the land. They might not be exactly like Homer’s Iliad and the Trojan War, but there seemed to be great glory in them. He had read about marches, sieges, conflicts, and he had longed to see it all. His busy mind had imagined large pictures in extravagant color, vivid with breathless deeds.
But his mother had discouraged him. She acted disgusted by his eagerness for war and his patriotism. She could calmly sit down and easily give him hundreds of reasons why he was vastly more important on the farm than on the field of battle. Her facial expressions told Henry that her views on war came from deep-seated beliefs. In her favor, Henry believed that her ethical and moral objections to war were solid.
At last, however, he firmly rebelled against this cowardly light thrown upon his ambitions. The newspaper reports of the war, the gossip of the village, and his own imagination, had excited him to an unstoppable degree. In truth, they were fighting finely down there in Virginia. Almost every day the newspaper printed accounts of a decisive victory.
One night, as he lay in bed, he heard the clanging of the church bell, as some excited villager jerked the rope frantically to tell the twisted news of a great battle. This voice of the people, rejoicing in the night, had made Henry shiver with a long ecstasy of excitement.
He got out of bed, went to his mother's room, and said, "Ma, I'm going to enlist."
"Henry, don't you be a fool," his mother had replied. She then covered her face with the quilt and went back to sleep. That was the end of the matter for that night.
Nevertheless, the next morning he went to a town near his mother's farm and enlisted in a company that was forming there. When he returned home, his mother was milking the brindle cow, with four other cows waiting.
"Ma, I've enlisted," he said to her shyly.
There was a short silence.
"The Lord's will be done, Henry," she finally replied, and then continued to milk the brindle cow.
As he stood in the doorway in his soldier's clothes, with the excitement and expectancy in his eyes almost overcoming his regret about leaving home, he saw two tears trailing down his mother's scarred cheeks.
He was disappointed when she said nothing about him returning with his shield or on it, for he had privately prepared himself for a beautiful scene. He had prepared certain sentences that he thought could be used with touching effect.
But her words destroyed his plans. She doggedly peeled potatoes and addressed him as follows:
"You watch out, Henry, and take good care of yourself in this fighting business--you watch, and take good care of yourself. Don't go thinking you can lick the whole Rebel army from the start, because you can't. You’re just one little fellow among a whole lot of others, and you've got to keep quiet and do what they tell you. I know how you are, Henry.
"I knitted you eight pair of socks, Henry, and I put in all your best shirts, because I want my boy to be just as warm and comfortable as anybody in the army. Whenever the shirts get holes in them, I want you to send them back to me right away, so I can darn them.
"And always be careful and choose your company. There are lots of bad men in the army, Henry. The army makes them wild, and they like nothing better than to teach drinking and swearing to a young fellow like you, who ain't never been away from home much and always had a mother. Keep clear of them folks, Henry. I don't want you to ever do anything, Henry, which you would be ashamed to let me know about. Just think of me as watching you. If you always keep that in your mind, I guess you'll come out about right.
"You must always remember your father, too, child, and remember he never drunk a drop of liquor in his life, and seldom swore.
"I don't know what else to tell you, Henry, except that you must never run from battle, child, to save me from grief. If the time comes when you have to be killed, or kill another man, Henry, don't think of anything except what's right, because there are many women who have to bear up against such things these days, and the Lord will take care of us all.
"Don't forget about the socks and the shirts, child. And I put a cup of blackberry jam with your bundle, because I know you like it above all things. Goodbye, Henry. Watch out, and be a good boy."
Henry had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal of this speech. It was not quite what he expected, and he was irritated by it. He left with a vague sense of relief.
Still, when he looked back from the gate, he saw his mother kneeling among the potato peelings. Her brown face, looking up, was stained with tears, and her thin body was quivering.
He lowered his head and went on, suddenly feeling ashamed of what he was doing.
From his home he went to the school to bid farewell to many classmates. They thronged around him with wonder and admiration. He felt the huge gulf that separated them from him, and he puffed up with calm pride.
Henry and his fellow soldiers who had donned the Union blue uniform were overwhelmed with so much attention for that single afternoon. It was delicious, and the young men strutted around, enjoying it.
A certain light-haired girl had made lively fun of Henry’s military spirit. But there was another, dark-haired girl whom he had gazed at steadily. She became quiet and sad at the sight of his blue uniform and brass. As he walked down the path between the rows of oaks, he turned his head and saw her at a window, watching his departure. Then she immediately turned her head and stared up through the tree branches at the sky. He often thought about her.
On the way down to Washington, his spirits soared. The regiment was fed and loved at station after station, until Henry believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish spread of bread and cold meats, coffee, and pickles and cheese.
As he basked in the smiles of the girls, and was patted and complimented by the old men, he felt growing within him the strength to do mighty deeds of war.
But after a complicated journey with many pauses, there had come months of monotonous life in a camp. Henry had always believed that real war was a series of death struggles, with small breaks in between for sleep and meals. But since his regiment had come to the field, the army had done little but sit still and try to keep warm.
Gradually, he returned to his old ideas. There would be no more heroic, Greek-like struggles. Men were better, or more afraid. Men were too smart about the world and religion to engage in wars of throat-grappling passion. Besides, wars of passion like the ancients fought were too expensive.
Henry began to think of himself merely as part of a vast blue demonstration. His role was to look out for his personal comfort as much as possible. For recreation, he could twiddle his thumbs and imagine what disturbing thoughts occupied the minds of the generals. The rest of the time, he was drilled and drilled and reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed.
The only enemies he had seen were some Confederate guards along the riverbank. They were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who sometimes shot at the Union guards. When they were reprimanded for this afterward, they usually expressed sorrow, and swore that their guns had exploded without their permission.
One night, when Henry was on guard duty, he conversed across the river with one of the Confederate grays. He was a slightly ragged man who could spit between his shoes quite skillfully, and had a great deal of childish confidence. Henry liked him personally.
"Yank," the other had called to him, “you’re a right dumb good fellow.” This expression of friendship, floating over to Henry in the still air, made him temporarily regret war.
Henry had heard various stories from veteran soldiers about the Confederate army. Some talked of whiskered, gray-uniformed hordes, advancing with uncommon valor as they constantly cursed and chewed tobacco. Or tremendous armies of fierce soldiers who swept along like the Huns.
Others spoke of tattered, eternally hungry men who fired their guns with discouragement.
"They'll charge through hellfire and brimstone to get hold of a knapsack of food, and such stomachs won’t last long," he was told. From the stories, Henry imagined the red, live bones sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms.
Still, Henry could not put much faith in veterans’ tales because new recruits were their prey. They talked a lot about smoke, fire, and blood, but Henry could not tell how much were lies. They constantly yelled ‘fresh fish!’ when they saw him, and were not to be trusted.
However, Henry realized that it did not really matter what kind of soldiers he was going to fight, so long as they fought, a fact that no one disputed.
But there was a more serious problem. Henry lay in his bunk pondering about it. He tried to mathematically prove to himself that he would not run from a battle.
Previously, he had never felt the need to wrestle too seriously with this question. During his life, he had taken certain things for granted. He never questioned his belief in ultimate success, and bothering little about the details.
But now, he was confronted with something important. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps, in a battle, he might run. He was forced to admit that, as far as war was concerned, he knew nothing about himself.
A long time ago, he would have allowed the problem to kick around on the edges of his mind. But now he felt compelled to give serious attention to it.
A little panic-fear grew in his mind. As his imagination took him forward into battle, he saw hideous possibilities. He thought about the dangers lurking in the future, and failed to see himself standing bravely in the midst them. He remembered his dreams of glory with his broken sword but, on the brink of imminent battle, he suspected that maybe they were impossible visions.
He sprang from the bunk and began to pace nervously to and fro in his hut.
"Good Lord, what's the matter with me?" he said aloud.
He felt that, in this crisis, what he knew about life was useless. Whatever he had learned about himself would not help him here. He was an unknown quantity. He saw that he would have to experiment, just as he had in early youth. He must gather information about himself, and meanwhile be on his guard, in case the part of him that he knew nothing about would disgrace him forever.
"Good Lord!" he repeated in dismay.
After a while, the tall soldier Jim slid nimbly through the hole in the hut. The loud private Wilson followed. They were arguing.
"That's all right," said Jim as he entered. He waved his hand expressively. "You can believe me or not, just as you like. All you have to do is sit down, be quiet, and wait. Then pretty soon you'll find out I was right."
His comrade grunted stubbornly. For a moment he seemed to be searching for an impressive reply.
Finally Wilson said, “Well, you don't know everything in the world, do you?"
"Didn't say I knew everything in the world," retorted Jim sharply. He began to pack various articles snugly into his knapsack.
Henry, pausing in his nervous pacing, looked at his busy comrade.
"Going to be a battle, sure, is there, Jim?" he asked.
"Of course there is," replied the tall soldier. "Of course there is. You just wait till tomorrow, and you'll see one of the biggest battles that ever was. You just wait."
"Thunder!" said Henry.
"Oh, you'll see fighting this time, my boy, that'll be regular out-and-out fighting," added Jim, with the air of a man who is about to demonstrate a battle for the benefit of his friends.
"Huh!" said the loud private from a corner.
"Well," remarked Henry, "this story will likely turn out just like the others did."
"Not much it won't," replied Jim, exasperated. "Not much it won't. Didn't the cavalry all start out this morning?"
Jim glared around. No one denied his statement.
"The cavalry started out this morning," he continued. "They say there’s hardly any cavalry left in camp. They're going to Richmond, or some place, while we fight all the Johnny Rebs on foot. It’s some strategy like that. The regiment's got orders. A fellow that saw ‘em go to headquarters told me a little while ago. And they're raising blazes all over camp--anybody can see that."
"Shucks!" said the loud one, Wilson.
Henry remained silent for a time. At last he spoke to the tall soldier.
"Jim!"
"What?"
"How do you think our regiment will do?"
"Oh, they'll fight all right, I guess, after they get into it," said Jim with cold judgment. He made fine use of the third person. "There's been heaps of fun poked at them because they're new, of course, and all that. But they'll fight all right, I guess."
"Think any of the boys will run?" persisted Henry.
"Oh, maybe a few, but there's that kind in every regiment, especially when they first come under fire," said Jim in a tolerant way. "Of course it might happen that the whole kit-and-caboodle might start to run, if some big fighting came right away, but then again, they might stay and fight like fun.
“But you can't bet on anything. They ain't never been under fire yet, and it ain't likely they'll lick the whole Rebel army the first time. But I think they'll fight better than some, if worse than others. That's the way I figure. They call our regiment 'fresh fish' and everything. But the boys come from good stock, and most of them will fight like sin after they once get shooting." He put a mighty emphasis on the last four words.
"Oh, you think you know--" began the loud private with scorn.
Jim turned savagely upon him. They had a quick argument, laying various strange curse words on each other.
Henry at last interrupted them.
"Did you ever think you might run yourself, Jim?" he asked. Then he laughed, as if he had meant it to be a joke. Wilson also giggled.
"Well", said Jim profoundly, as he waved his hand, "I've thought that it might get too hot for Jim Conklin in some of those scrimmages, and if a whole lot of boys started to run, why, I suppose I'd start to run. And if I once started to run, I'd run like the devil, make no mistake. But if everybody was standing and fighting, why, I'd stand and fight. By jiminy, I would. I'll bet on it."
"Huh!" said the loud private.
Henry felt gratitude for these words of his comrade. He had feared that all the other untried men possessed great confidence. He was now somewhat reassured.